War!
The deafening shouts and killing cries rose from all directions.
He jolted awake in fright and found himself standing in a cramped alley squeezed between city walls, low houses, and crude shacks.
Filthy water flowed along the city wall, reflecting an ominous dark-red oily shine at his feet. The stench hanging in the air was not the foul odor of household garbage or human and animal waste, but instead a strong reek of rust, the burned smell of charred corpses…
'Where am I?!!' The sight before him shocked his mind into a buzzing blank.
"Boom~"
Suddenly, an explosion sounded. The city wall, houses, and shacks violently trembled, the ground shook beneath him. He had no time to think—instinctively he stepped into the dirty water and pressed his back tightly against the wall.
The violent shaking of the wall numbed his bones, as if a current was flowing through his muscles, bones, and blood vessels.
'Wasn't I on the old road between Brugge and Armeria?'
The solid yet slimy feeling on his back forced him to calm down and remember who he was and where he should be.
'This isn't the Mayena Druid Circle, it's Mayena City? Did war break out in Mayena? Did Vera and Vesemir encounter an accident and get separated?'
'No!'
After fully calming down, Allen realized his limbs were intact. He could run and jump—he didn't look injured at all.
With the wounds he had suffered in Ban Ard, even with Swallow, Full Moon and the White Raffard's Decoction, combined with Vera and Ida Emean's medical skills, it would still take at least a month before he could walk like a healthy normal person again.
A month.
They would have reached the Mayena Druid Circle long ago. How could he suddenly end up in some city engulfed in war?
At this thought, Allen suddenly noticed that his viewpoint was strange—the city walls, houses and shacks around him appeared especially tall.
He lowered his head.
A pair of small, dusty, mud-covered hands—hands of a mischievous five- or six-year-old child—came into view.
Also in view was a fine cotton-satin tunic, though dirtied by grime, still clearly well-made and even stylish.
A crest was faintly embroidered on the tunic's chest.
The crest was divided by a cross shape, but what lay inside the four quadrants could no longer be made out.
'A noble child… a five- or six-year-old noble child…' He murmured softly, unable to understand as he looked at the filthy surroundings.
'Why would a noble's offspring appear here…'
'…in the slums of the lower district?'
'Because of war, separated from their family while fleeing in panic?'
'No! It might not be something that happened in reality—this could be a dream…'
Allen's mind was still somewhat chaotic.
He could not think of any reason why he would appear here, inhabiting the body of a child…
"Boom!"
Another deafening blast struck the city wall.
Pebbles and dust rained down.
Allen felt his organs trembling as if they would shatter, and staggered away from the wall in a hurry.
But techniques suitable for a witcher dodging falling debris were not suited for a five- or six-year-old child.
'What should I do?'Once his breathing steadied, he looked around in confusion.
If this were truly a dream, or his own body, he would have dashed out immediately to scout the situation.
But now, everything felt far too real. He didn't know in what manner he was occupying the child's body—whether it was temporary, or like the original owner, whose soul had already dispersed leaving an empty vessel.
If this was only temporary, was this filthy, deserted corner actually a safe spot arranged by the child's parents?
As he carefully weighed this, he suddenly noticed the shadow at his feet growing sharper around the edges.
'Not good!'
His expression changed dramatically. He didn't look up, didn't care whether the trembling wall would shake his organs apart—he threw himself directly into the filthy water beside it.
A heavy stench mixed with blood rushed into his nostrils.
"Boom!"
The earth shook violently, nearly knocking him unconscious. Scorching heat licked across his back, and he heard the hairs on the back of his head curling from the burn.
Only after a long while did he come back to his senses and struggle to crawl out of the dirty water.
"Cough, cough, cough~"
A string of childish coughs escaped. In front of him was a field of firelight.
Thick smoke and ash spewed from the narrow streets. The flames swallowed the tightly packed thatched huts, licking the outer walls of the castle and spreading outward at a speed visible to the naked eye.
He instantly understood—there was no choice.
Whether he was lost or his parents had deliberately left him here, he could not stay.
'Damn it! Just what kind of place have I come to?!' Allen cursed under his breath, enduring the burning pain on his back. With unsteady steps, he followed the direction of the city wall outward.
Nearly every two steps came another explosion, yet the deafening shouts of battle from all sides were gradually fading.
No—
Rather than fading, they were moving farther away…
'And this isn't the noise of normal combat. The attackers are using magic—very powerful magic…'
Allen made his judgment while steadying himself against the wall.
'But didn't the Northern Continent ban high-level sorcerers from taking part in war long ago?'
War always came down to profit—whether defending or seizing. Low-level sorcerers were manageable; their spells were often less deadly than arrows. But once it involved high-level sorcerers, destroying cities and nations became a matter of moments.
And powerful spells were hard to control—they could not distinguish friend from foe. Like Alzur's Double Cross, which summoned a Viy that destroyed half of Maribor, killing Alzur himself.
As for restricting sorcerers from using spells they couldn't fully control—once on the battlefield, who would care? Any chance to win or reverse the situation must be seized.
The Northern Continent once allowed high-level sorcerers to intervene in wars on behalf of nations.
The result was that nothing was protected, and no advantage remained worth keeping.
Thus the rule was established, and by convention, the Northern Continent's sorcerers were considered to have no nationality.
But this was only convention.
'Is this the aftermath of Ban Ard's second fall?'
'Are the male mages of the Ortolan School and the Brotherhood's radical faction extreme enough to try founding a sorcerer-kingdom while Hen Gedymdeith is still unconscious?'
Allen had considered whether this might be the Wild Hunt—after all, powerful siege magic was practically their signature.
But on one hand, they had just suffered a devastating defeat.
The Aen Elle were a highly orderly civilization. They couldn't simply "lose a batch of brothers" and immediately send another wave for revenge.
This was war—a cross-world war.
After such losses, their next invasion would be planned with far greater caution. They would send more warriors, stronger ones, but certainly not so soon.
On the other hand, the Wild Hunt always rode across the sky, crushing human soldiers with their aerial advantage.
But when Allen looked up…
The sky, darkened by smoke, was filled with fireballs, falling rocks, and hail—yet no skeletal riders galloped through the air.
As for prophecy…
Prophecies had never been this vivid. They were always vague, foggy, dream-like.
And they lasted too briefly—only a few scattered fragments, never forming a full picture.
But now…
He felt he had been walking for nearly half an hour.
'Just what is happening?'Allen muttered over and over, unable to stop questioning.
He thought about trying to communicate with the wolf medallion, the mirage pearl, the good girl, and even the Witcher's Journal inside his mind.
His mind was completely empty. The links to the wolf medallion, the mirage pearl, and the good girl had all disappeared. Only when he tried to trigger the Witcher's Journal…
The surrounding space began to shake, becoming unstable. The roaring explosions, the cries of battle by his ears, even the smell of smoke entering his nose all turned faint, as if separated by a thin layer of some medium.
As though the moment he forcibly activated the Witcher's Journal, he would immediately leave the body he was in and return to his original body.
This did make Allen let out a breath of relief.
'As long as I can go back anytime…' he thought.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
The explosions by his ears became more and more frequent. He was walking step by step toward the core of the battlefield, and he felt more and more strange…
Even though he was following along the city wall and still in some remote areas, it shouldn't have been possible to encounter absolutely no one. The houses and shacks along the road did not have a single head peeking out from windows or door cracks. They all seemed empty.
It was as if this city were a ghost city.
But if one said this entire city was a ghost city, the shouts of killing and explosions just beyond the city wall were so clear that it made no sense.
The smell in the air was a mix of burnt stench and choking smoke, making one's throat itch.
This deeply contradictory sensation made Allen's skin crawl.
Fortunately—
With the guidance of Sol, Allen had become familiar with castle and wall structures of all kinds. By identifying the materials and brick patterns of the city wall, he confirmed he was definitely still on the Northern Continent, and he also knew where the city gate was…
Closer…
Finally, after climbing a steep, chipped stone staircase and passing through a section of shacks, the view opened up before him.
A desolate ruin stood amidst soaring flames. Thick smoke rushed upward into the sky, staining the blue heavens black. The world was chaotic and dim.
There were also humans—but not the living kind.
Wearing peasants' coarse linen or merchants' and nobles' fine silks, the dead human bodies lay scattered across the damp, rough stone street.
"Tap, tap, tap~"
He carefully stepped out from the shack district, the ground beneath his feet wet and sticky, extremely unpleasant.
As he came closer, more details revealed themselves to the witcher's eyes.
None of the corpses had any wounds. They only stared upward with gray, dead eyes, gazing strangely at the sky—or reflecting the firelight of nearby burning houses.
Seeing this, even Allen—long accustomed to beheading and dismembering—couldn't help the chill crawling up his spine. His hairs stood on end.
'Ordinary humans… no wounds… no struggle… instant death… expressions anxious but not terrified…'
'They died without warning. Perhaps they were the first group of humans to die in this city…'
Allen examined the dead with a witcher's professional standards.
Farther away, there were other corpses, but those were not as complete—some were pierced, others blown apart, others burned to death… every kind of death.
By the time he reached the middle of the road, even more could be seen.
But Allen's attention was no longer on the gruesome corpses.
The sloping stone street led directly down to the city gate—which had a giant hole blasted into it.
Through that hole, he could faintly see daylight outside the city, and the remaining shouts of battle were coming from that direction.
When he noticed the hole, and that the faint cries of battle sounded somewhat familiar, his senses suddenly activated.
A strong intuition surged into his mind, telling him that the destination of this "journey" was there—right beyond that broken gate.
Allen swallowed.
The burning wound on his back seemed not as painful anymore.
"Tap, tap, tap~"
Following his intuition, Allen avoided corpses, avoided dark red pools of blood and burning debris, and took step after step toward the blasted-open remains of the gate.
The farther he walked, the fewer corpses appeared on the stone street.
This violated common sense.
Since the city gate had been breached, there should have been one or several brutal meat-grinder battles just behind the gate. And yet, the sparse corpses on the stone road made it seem as if the enemy had used powerful magic to open the gate merely to say hello—to tell the people inside not to struggle, to obediently come out and die.
It was as if at the very moment the city gate was blown open, reinforcements arrived and pinned the enemy outside the city.
There were only corpses at the city gate, not a single guard.
And when he stepped into the shadow of the city wall and passed through the blasted-open gate, the tearing, heart-rending shouts of battle became clear once again.
"Boom!"
A blinding flash of light burst forth the moment he climbed onto the towering ruins of the gate and leaned out to look beyond, accompanied by a deafening roar, forcing Allen to squint and steady himself with his hand.
When he opened his eyes again—
The open plain connected to distant mountains stretched before him. From the gate outward, corpses lay everywhere, and rivers of blood flowed.
And beyond that mountain of corpses and sea of blood, in the far distance, blocks of black and pale gray intertwined, merging and separating. Every collision came with earth-shaking battle cries and large patches of pale gray halting abruptly.
Those black and pale gray shapes were the city's defenders and the enemy.
But because they were too far away, the boy whose body Allen was inhabiting did not have the eyesight of a witcher and could not clearly identify either side.
'Should I move closer?' The moment this thought appeared, Allen's field of vision suddenly shuddered, then floated outward, racing toward the battlefield at incredible speed.
The black and pale gray blocks rapidly expanded and sharpened in front of him.
Yet the shouts of battle and all other noise quickly faded from his ears, until everything was silent.
Allen did not notice this, because he had already clearly seen the two blocks.
The pale gray block was knights wearing silver-white armor, and the black block was something he knew more than anything else—
'The Wild Hunt!'
'No! Not just the Wild Hunt!'
As his vision shot toward the battlefield at extreme speed, Allen recognized that at the spearpoint of the black, cone-shaped mass of skeletal riders, the one laughing wildly while charging at the silver-white knights with a black lance was none other than the King of the Wild Hunt—Eredin Bréacc Glas.
'How is this possible?' Allen cried out in his mind. 'How could the King of the Wild Hunt descend so quickly? No—why is the Wild Hunt on the ground instead of flying in the sky?'
'How could the King of the Wild Hunt possibly be laughing like an ordinary knight, charging with a lance…'
'Wait!'
Allen suddenly thought of a question.
'Who is actually fighting the King of the Wild Hunt?!!'
..........
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